


Birthday Blues

by lusium



Category: Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Trauma, Vague references to WKM, Warf has a bad day, a really bad day, dont ask me why its his birthday it just is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 02:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusium/pseuds/lusium
Summary: Wilford's alone on his birthday





	Birthday Blues

**Author's Note:**

> So I got bored and realized hey, I hadn't written anything for warf yet... so I kinda drew this up in about an hour and yeah...

He’s alone when he wakes up, the familiar brush of the other auras missing as he allows his to extend; searching for them. Absently, the demon wonders where they all had run off to, hauling himself out of the bed without any intention of changing out of his pajamas.

The Birthday Boy never changes out of his pajamas, after all.

There’s a moment he’s standing in Mark’s recording room, pillow clutched to his chest and puff-ball sleep hat leaning rather comically over one eye, before his mind seems it fit to remind him that he was  **alone** for the day. 

* * *

_ “ Are you sure you’ll be alright in the house by yourself?”  Doc asked him, running a soothing hand over his arm as he focused on the cupcakes he had decided to start baking at 4 in the morning. _

_**“Absolutely! Wilford Warfstache can take care of himself.”** He’d exclaimed, rather loudly judging by the scathing look he was given from the hallway. Warf had only waved excitedly at the monochrome demon glaring out at him from the bedroom. _

_ “Wilford-” The Doc had started, immediately being cut off by a batter-covered spoon being shoved against his mouth. _

_**“Doc, if you ask me that again I’ll introduce you to the next segment of my show called tickle the doctor with a knife.”** He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a threat, the offer instead being a legitimate idea. He’d been planning a show segment to tickle local doctors with a knife! And hey! Maybe they wouldn’t pass out because of blood loss. The journalist blinked a few times, realizing Doc had left at some point in his mind’s ramblings.  _

* * *

Wilford gave a low hum, considering the knowledge that he was actually alone in the house for once. Fingers drumming against the wooden table beside of him, the pillow poofing away to where-ever the fuck he held them—Honestly Warf didn’t really know where things he’d dismissed were sent, knowing only that they just came back whenever he needed them, sometimes with some glitter, other times they were sentenced to smelling as though the journalist had decided to rent a Cotton Candy machine and shove the nearest pillow into it…

He’d stopped questioning it long ago.

Settling down onto the couch in the back of the room, Wilford stared blankly at the dark screen in front of him; his aura reaching out almost pleadingly for something familiar to respond to it. 

He didn’t see his hands starting to tremble, didn’t notice as his heart rate picked up as the silence seemed to grate on his suddenly sensitive hearing. 

The room around him seemed too big—and yet too small, all at once. Something gnawed at the back of his mind, something important he knew, but couldn’t seem to find its way through the haze that had taken over.

Wilford doesn’t know when he had changed rooms, when he had moved himself to sitting in the living room, where he knew the scents of the others lingered so heavily; imprints from the last time they had all been gathered in the room only an hour or so before he’d woken up.

His aura curls around anything it can, seeking the familiar comfort of another aura reacting to its presence.

He knows he’s beginning to panic, but he can’t remember why. He knows all too well that he’s beginning to draw back into his memories, and yet they’re all too blurry for him to make anything of. The Journalist can feel himself choking on the air he’s struggling to take in as his tremors increase.

He doesn’t know when he’d ended up on the floor, shoved into the furthest corner he could manage, with his head shoved into his knees, and hands gripping dyed hair painfully tight. Sitting like that, he can feel the way his body trembles with every breath, hear the frantic way his heart pounds against his chest, like it’s trying to get out.

There’s a phantom of a voice in his ears, a name that sounds so familiar and yet  _ foreign  _ ringing in his mind, getting lost in the haze before he can try to think over it.

He can feel the tears as they fall, suspects that they’re blurring his vision, though he couldn’t exactly confirm it, feeling that if he were to look up, everything he struggled to keep a hold on—every little fragile portion of who he  _ was,  _ would shatter around him.

Wilford can feel himself rocking, a desperate motion to try and force back the tremors that tear at him and make his breath come in painful gasps for air, as though he were suffocating.

He’s not sure when he started talking, responding to the scathing remarks drifting through his mind, and tearing what little he had built up for himself into little slivers of a person.

**“** **_Leave me alone, please… I’m sorry-”_ **

The names are on the tip of his tongue, though every attempt only comes out with his throat tightening and a painful wheeze of air. 

**_“It was an accident I swear….”_ **

His voice is quiet, ragged and broken to even his own ears as he struggles to breathe.

**_“I didn’t kill you- I wouldn’t have killed you- It was all a game…”_ **

Why does it sound like such a lie to himself? 


End file.
